Leaf On the Wind, and Other Stories
by nlduffy
Summary: Series of one shots written from Wash's point of view. They follow more or less chronological order, but are uploaded in the order they were written. Ch. 8 now up.
1. Leaf On The Wind

_-"It's okay! I am a leaf on the wind!"_

_-"What does that mean?"_

Wash had never seen trees before. At least, not trees that could be properly counted as such. Of course they had a hydroponics unit on the ship where he was born, but the only tree there was a scraggly old bonsai, many times older than the ancient Chinese cook it belonged to.

He'd read about them in books, in the books he used to read about Earth That Was. When he wasn't following his uncle around learning everything the man could teach about flying, Wash was holed up in his bunk, blankets pulled up over his head, flashlight eagerly scanning the pages of his most recent treasure.

He'd seen pictures of trees in his books, pictures of the majestic Giant Sequoia, the sturdy oaks, the intricate strangler figs…but to young Wash, trees were just like the dinosaurs. They must have existed at some point, but they certainly weren't around any longer. Which is why, when his Aunt and Uncle asked him what he wanted for his tenth birthday, his request was quite simple: dinosaurs and trees. The plastic playset he received that year instantly became his favorite possession. Within hours, the dinosaurs all had names. And each dinosaur had his very own tree. And one by one, they migrated onto the console of the ship as Wash began to take over his Uncle's piloting duties.

Which is why they were now safely stowed away in the bottom of his satchel as he arrived on Ariel to begin flight school. He'd never been to a central planet before, and he'd certainly never been on solid ground more than a few days shoreleave in between runs. He was fifteen, nervous, and utterly out of place. A wind, an honest-to-goodness wind whipped through his reddish blond hair, and Wash eagerly turned, letting the wind rush across his face. Above him, fallen leaves from the nearby trees danced and spun in intricate patterns across the sky. Wash thought he had never seen anything quite so beautiful.

Wash was kicked out of flight school just a few months later, for "the development and execution of flight plans that constituted reckless endangerment of students and staff."

"…What do they know?" Wash asked himself as he packed his stegosaurus away. "I am a leaf on the wind, watch me soar!"


	2. Finding Serenity

Wash had just been fired. Again. As his captain stacked dinosaur after dinosaur into Wash's protesting arms, she tried to explain herself.

"It's not that you aren't good enough, Wash. You're the best pilot we've ever had. But we've been chartered by the Alliance now, and they insist on everyone having proper credentials…a flight school certification."

She shrugged apologetically and shooed him out the hatchway, shutting the door behind her. Wash sighed and turned to head off to his quarters. He knew the routine. He bumped into a young Chinese man wearing a flight school uniform. A greenhorn. He was being replaced by a cadet straight out of flight school. Ouch. "Take good care of her, she's a good ship." Wash told the boy, patting him on the shoulder.

"Excuse me sir, but aren't you Hoban Washbourne?" the boy asked timidly. Wash nodded. The boy's face split into a grin. "You're a hero, a legend! First sucessful barn swallow in the history of the school! Your training videos are the most popular…"

Wash cut him off. "Hero, schmero. Now I'm just a loser." He ignored the boys protests and walked away.

He spent the next two weeks on Shadow, getting drunk out of his mind and learning how to juggle baby geese. Hey, it's what they did for fun there, and Wash wasn't in any state to complain. He could have made a life for himself there, juggling geese, drinking moonshine, but he had to leave rather suddenly one evening after tossing the innkeeper's prized gosling into the rafters and it had refused to come down. Wash swore profusely in Mandarin as he shakily tried to bandage his goosepecked fingers. These folk sure did get touchy about their waterfowl. "It weren't all that pretty!" He exclaimed, then hurriedly ducked as a beer bottle shattered over his head.

The next morning, he was headed to Persephone, intent on finding gainful employment once again. He was convinced that the goose incident was a sign that he should mend his wicked ways…and he was almost out of credit.

But old habits die hard, and by that night, he was holed up in a corner of the town's only saloon, counting on his bandaged fingers how many ships he'd been on in the past two years. Four…no five. And he'd been driven off all of them by the expanding influence of the damned Alliance. He idly wondered what his life would have been like if the Browncoats had triumphed at Serenity Valley.

He was making money for the next round of drinks and possibly a night's lodging by beating challenger after challenger at the run down flight simulator when he felt someone come up behind him. "I'm done with challengers for the night." Wash told whoever it was, as he ducked his ship under his opponent's and bumped it up onto a satellite. Game over. Wash collected the credit from another grumbling loser with a bow and a handshake.

"Can you fly real ships too, or is this just one of those drunken barroom talents?" asked the man who had been behind him, following him over to the bar. "Anything's got an engine, I can fly it." Wash said, "and I'm trying to give up on the drinking, I had a nasty experience with a goose." He gestured with his bandaged fingers and took a sip of his possibly virgin Bloody Mary.

"So you've been to Shadow then?" the other man asked, settling himself on the stool next to Wash, and smoothing the wrinkles out of his long brown coat. "That's where my family's from. Never could get the hang of the juggling though."

Wash shrugged. "So, Mr. Shadow, why are you stalking a washed up old pilot like me?"

"The name's Mal. Malcolm Reynolds. Captain Malcolm Reynolds."

That name sounded somewhat familiar to Wash, but he couldn't quite place it. No matter, it would come in time. "Wash is what they call me." He didn't offer any more information.

Mal let out a whoop. "Gorram! I was right!" He pumped a fist in the air. "Zoë, pay up, it IS him."

A tall woman who would have been more at home with the ancient Amazon warriors of earth that was strode over and stood behind Mal. "Sorry sir, I left my money in my purse." She said with a straight face.

Mal grinned. "Wash, this is Zoë, my second in command. Just so happens that the two of us need a pilot. And rumor has it, Mr. Wash, that you're the best to be had."

"You wouldn't want me, Captain Reynolds…" Wash started.

"Mal. Call me Mal." He interrupted.

"All right, …Mal. As I was saying, you wouldn't want old space trash like me. I don't have that newfangled Alliance certification everyone's suddenly so keen on."

Zoë nodded, apparently satisfied, and turned away, but Mal leaned in closer. "That don't matter none." He said quietly. "We ain't no friends of the Alliance. We're a bit more… Independent…if you get my drift."

Wash liked the sound of that. He grinned, and shook Mal's hand with his two least bitten fingers. "What kinda scrapmetal you got?"

"She's a Firefly." Mal said, pride in his voice.

Which is how Wash found himself on Serenity's bridge, already planning out where to put his dinosaurs. The carnivores would be on the right… "This will do quite nicely. When do we take off?"

"Gotta find a mechanic first, then I'll let you know." Zoë glared at Mal, attempting to communicate something, then stomped off. Mal shrugged. "Female thing. C'mon. I'll show you to your quarters."

He gave Wash the default access code to his bunk, then turned to go. "Hey, Mal?" Wash stopped him.

Mal turned. "Yeah, Wash?"

"You were at Serenity Valley." It was part question, part statement. Seeing the name of the ship had clicked it into place. Malcolm Reynolds,

Mal drew close. "That a problem, Wash?" His voice was dangerously quiet. "Because your contract ain't final yet."

Wash tried to diffuse the situation with a smile. "Was there myself, briefly." He paused then added hastily, "flying rescue missions with my uncle. His freighter, the Lucky River, was the one the Alliance attacked in orbit. It was after I got out of detainment…"

Mal's initial anger had turned to interest, so Wash continued. "My ma's people, the Hobans, they had themselves a homestead northeast of the valley. I didn't live there, but all the family would come back and celebrate New Year together." He looked over at Mal. "Am I boring you?"

Mal's voice was still quiet, but no longer dangerous. "Not at all."

Wash smiled. "It's nice to finally find someone else who remembers the old place."

Mal gave him a sad smile in return. "No Wash, the problem ain't tryin' to remember… it's tryin' to forget."


	3. Zoë

Wash had a feeling that the first mate of the Firefly he'd been hired to pilot didn't like him. It was just a hunch, but she was always there, dressed like a soldier, watching him with those dark, hard eyes.

Currently, she was glaring at him from the hatchway as he unpacked his dinosaur box. He'd been on a lot of ships over the years, and these guys had been his good luck charm since the beginning. …he could feel her eyes boring into the back of his head. He turned to face her, wondering in the small rational part of his brain if this was the impulse that would finally get him shot. But Wash had never been much for caution.

"Do you ever smile?" He asked, leaning back in his chair and attempting to adopt an air of nonchalance. Stony silence. Wash figured that meant no.

"It's the moustache, isn't it?" He said, trying another tactic.

"If I say yes, will you get off this ship?" She countered, her voice as warm as an iceberg.

"That's for your captain to decide." Wash replied. "I take it you didn't agree with him hiring me?"

"In all the years I've known Captain Reynolds, I've never questioned a single decision of his…until now."

This could not be good. This had bad written all over it. Somehow, Wash had made an enemy of a career soldier who could easily kill him with her pinkie. Fantastic.

She stood now, and moved to tower over him, her hand on resting meaningfully on the holster of her gun. "Look." She ordered. "Betray us, and I will fong you until your insides are out, your outsides are in, your entrails will become your extrails. I will rip-" she broke off and made a descriptive gesture with her hands. "All the p-" She cracked her knuckles. "Pain." She concluded. "Lots and lots of pain." She turned and stalked off the bridge. Wash let the breath he had been unconsciously holding. He worriedly looked over at his triceratops. "Irving, I think we're in trouble."

It had to be about six weeks later the first time Zoë actually used Wash's name. "Sir, will you please pass the tomatoes?" She asked, gesturing with a chopstick at the bowl next to Wash.

"I most certainly will not!" Mal said indignantly around a mouthful of pickled cabbage. "Them's too far. Play nice and ask Wash."

Zoë heaved a sigh that would have made the martyrs proud. Mal had given her an order, no matter how indirect. She looked over at Wash. "Pass the tomatoes…" She hesitated. "…Wash." She spit his name out like it was poison.

Wordlessly, Wash handed over the tomatoes. Mal helped himself to some more cabbage and smiled into his plate.

Three weeks later, Mal was out in the shuttle, trying to work out a job on Whitefall. He'd taken the new mechanic, Kaylee out with him to barter for a part she needed. Wash enjoyed having Kaylee around, she was friendly and made the ship slightly more livable. He enjoyed their conversations about Serenity (the ship and the crew).

Involved in a complex scenario involving a tyrannosaurus and a palm tree, Wash didn't hear Zoë until she leaned up against the storage locker right behind him. Startled, Wash fought the reflex to scream like a little girl.

"Where'd you learn to fly?" She asked, her voice as close to normal conversational tone as Wash had ever heard it. "Flight school? 'Cause them's some right fancy moves." Wash could only assume she was referring to a week ago, when he managed to scrape off a pursuing Reaver on a convenient asteroid.

Wash gave a nervous little laugh. "I lasted two and a half months in flight school on Ariel. They kicked me out for 'endangering' the instructor." He tried to relax, as it appeared she wasn't going to fong him…whatever that meant. "Mine uncle taught me. He ran a freighter that made the rounds from the Central Planets to the border territories twice a month."

Zoë smiled then, a sort of wicked half smile that left Wash feeling terrified and slightly giddy. "I says to the Captain 'That ain't no Alliance training.'" She looked over at him. "Guess I was right."

Wash never asked about the jobs they were getting, but he could tell by the amount of shooting that not all of them were legal. He'd almost become used to the sound of gunfire, and had figured out that it usually meant they needed to make a quick getaway.

When he heard the sound of bullets today, he prepped Serenity for takeoff, warned Kaylee down in the engine room, and trotted down to the cargo bay to make sure everything was fastened down. He expected to see the usual, a few dead or wounded bad guys, and Mal and Zoë taking care of the grisly details. What he didn't expect was Zoë, unconscious, slumped over the hood of the mule, bleeding from a wound in her torso, and Mal nowhere to be seen.

"Don't Panic, Don't Panic!" Wash told himself, as he rushed over and hoisted the unconscious Zoë into a fireman's carry. She was surprisingly light, Wash found, as he staggered his way back towards the medical bay. He ran through his rudimentary first aid checklist: Keep her breathing, stop the bleeding. He arrived at the bay and set her down on the table, surveying the damage. In order to stop the bleeding, he needed unobstructed access to the wound.

Unfortunately, Zoë woke up just as Wash had finished removing her shirt. A swift uppercut to his jaw had him sprawling on the floor.

"I knew I shouldn't trust you!" She shouted down at him, drawing her gun and fumbling for ammunition.

"You damn crazy Amazon, look at your stomach!" Wash shouted back, holding a hand to his jaw. Zoë glanced down at her stomach, over to Wash, and back down to her stomach. "You got gutshot, I was tryin' to stop the bleedin'." He explained, waiting for his racing heart to slow down. "Just tryin' to help." Zoë stared at him a moment longer, then set her gun aside.

"Get me a bandage."

By the time Mal returned, sweaty and swearing, from chasing down the buyers who had tried to run without paying, Zoë was bandaged and resting as comfortably as could be expected. Mal thought the story was great.

"You're powerful lucky, Wash." Mal told him. "Zoë usually shoots first and asks questions later."

"Tell that to my jaw." Wash replied, lifting the icepack to show the captain the large bruise blossoming across his face. "I think next time, I'll make Kaylee do the doctorin'."

When Zoë was up and around again, Wash pointed to his swollen jaw and asked "Is this what you call fonging?" Zoë smiled again, a predatory smile that made Wash's pulse do strange things. "No. But come closer, and I'll show you."

"What a story we'll have to tell our grandbabies." Zoë said one night, pulling off the last of her sweat-soaked clothes and sliding into bed next to her husband. Wash poked at the tiny scar on her belly as he asked. "The part where you thought I was an Alliance spy, or the part where you just about shot me in the face?"

Zoë laughed. "The part where I fell in love with a man who still plays with dinosaurs."

Wash propped himself upon one elbow. "What's wrong with my dinosaurs?" He asked, feigning hurt.

Zoë smiled. "Baby, you gotta admit, they are a mite strange." She burst into laughter. "But not nearly as bad as that gorram moustache!"


	4. War Stories

Although he would never tell Mal, and would only hint at it to Zoë, Wash had been in the war. He'd never seen hand to hand ground combat like they had, but as a pilot, he'd seen his share of the horrors of war.

He stayed out of the war at first, working on a freighter that ferried agricultural supplies out to the border planets. It was easy enough to forget about the war. The struggles the settlers faced were the same as always: sickness, draught, crop failure…Wash could understand that. The war didn't affect people like him.

That all changed when he returned to the family homestead on Hera for New Year. Two of his cousins had been killed, another was recuperating in a military hospital somewhere, and three more were deployed on active duty. His uncle had turned his highly successful fleet of cargo ships into a refugee convoy.

Wash was stunned. The war had found him after all. The dinner table was uncharacteristically quiet that year. The next day, Wash quit his job and went back to work for his uncle.

Owen Washbourne was the father Wash had never had. Wash's father had been killed shortly after Wash was born, and all that Wash had was a single capture of a mustachioed man waving with an idiotic grin on his face.

Like his younger brother, Owen had married into the Hoban family, and they were a close-knit group. When Wash's mother's lungs went bad, his aunt and uncle took him in without any hesitations. Wash divided his early years between visits to the rest home where his mother stayed and haunting the corridors of his uncle's ship, the Lucky River. That was where Wash learned to fly.

When Wash came back, Owen gave him a small freighter from his shipping fleet and a week's worth of supplies. "There's a small colony of settlers caught in between a rock and a hard place on Saint Alban's. See if you can't get them out."

Wash managed to fly into the occupied territory undetected, and spirit away the colonists whose water supply had been cut off by a vengeful Alliance general, and had almost left orbit when the Alliance finally picked him up on the radar. He managed to shake off the pursuit long enough to get the passengers unloaded onto a sympathetic Skyplex before the Alliance arrested him.

Wash was sentenced without trial, accused of aiding and abetting enemy combatants, and sent to the detention camps on XXXX. There, he teamed up with a young corporal from Shadow and they spent several months entertaining their fellow prisoners with shadow puppets and juggling.

Then the corporal was executed, and Wash was taken to meet Adelai Niska. The torture expert had free run of the prisoners detained here, and Wash was terrified of him. He had seen what this man could do.

"You are a funny man, no?" Niska questioned in a friendly manner, pacing around his desk. Wash, handcuffed to a chair, remained silent. "You like to make people laugh." He came to a rest in front of Wash and leaned back on his desk.

Wash cleared his throat and attempted a response. "I'm afraid I'll lose my charm if I don't practice." He tried to smile.

Niska smiled, a gesture that only made Wash more worried. "We are not so different, you and I." He leaned in. "We are both artists." Without warning, a knife flashed out of nowhere and buried itself in Wash's collarbone. Wash screamed. "Like you, I need my practice."

He prepared for another strike, as an Alliance colonel burst in. "Mister Niska! The Independents are holding at Serenity Valley! High command requests your immediate presence!" Niska swore in Russian and rushed to grab his things. "This is not over, funny man."

The next day, when soldiers came to Wash's prison block, he knew it was all over. He was cleaned up, and brought into a large clean office that Wash could only suppose belonged to the director. His Aunt Ruth was there. When she saw him, she burst into tears.

It had taken them six months to find him. The Alliance had fiercely denied the existence of political prisoners, and had only recanted in the last month or so after newsfeed from one of the camps was smuggled out and broadcast throughout the cortex. After that, it had been a long trek through miles of red tape. But his family had been persistent. And Wash was set free.

In the relative safety of the tiny commuter ship, Aunt Ruth explained the situation. The Alliance and the Independents were deadlocked in the Serenity Valley on Hera, a mere ten miles from the Hoban family homestead. It had been utterly destroyed by an Alliance offensive last week. "It's the three of us left now." She tearfully told Wash. Then she gave him a miracle, somehow she had managed to save his dinosaurs from the bridge of the seized ship.

Wash spent a week in the medical wing of the Lucky River recovering from the dual shock of the camp and the destruction of his home. Then he was back on duty, flying as many as a dozen shuttle missions a day down to the surface of Hera, dropping supplies, evacuating refugees.

In the midst of it all, he began to regain his sense of humor. He would prove to that bastard Niska that they were nothing alike.

The moment the Independents surrendered, Wash and his uncle were down on the surface, ready to get the remaining Independents to medical attention. It was chaos on the surface. Wash could hardly recognize the valley where he'd gone to fairs as a child. And the soldiers of both sides had a deadened, haunted look about them that Wash would never forget.

It was decided that the most grievously injured patients would go aboard the Lucky River, which had better medical facilities and a faster engine. The rest would go aboard Wash's smaller freighter, Jolene. He was helping a soldier with a missing hand into the hatch of the Jolene when he overheard a conversation.

"Zoë, you need medical attention. Get on that other freighter."

"I'm not leaving, sir."

"Zoë, get on that freighter!"

"Not if you don't, sir."

Wash lost track of the two for a moment, only to see them board his freighter moments later and sit down in the back. Years later, Malcolm Reynolds and Zoë Alleyne would seem familiar to him, but he would not remember why.

As they left Hera's orbit, an Alliance ship broke treaty agreements and fired on the Lucky River. Wash and the soldiers on his ship could only look on in horror as the Lucky River was incinerated.

The next day, Wash packed up his dinosaurs, sold the Jolene, and plunged back into the workforce. He managed to block out those months from his memories, and threw his entire energy into becoming the best pilot in the 'verse. "I am a leaf on the wind, Uncle Owen, watch me soar."


	5. Kaywinnet Lee Frye

This couldn't be right. She was far too young. She was far too…womanly. "What happened to the other mechanic? You know, the genius one?" Wash wanted to know as he followed Mal down the hallway.

He'd just come across a girl cheerfully painting a flower border around the cupboards in the pantry. She'd introduced herself as Kaitlyn, or Kelly, or somesuch pink and fluffy name. She'd also declared herself ship's mechanic. At that point in the conversation, Wash excused himself, and in the recently established pattern of what to do when something unexpected happens, he went running for Mal.

"Bester couldn't fix my ship. Kaylee did. Presto, new genius mechanic." Mal said, and went back to attempting to return a particularly feisty chicken to its cage. "Gorram bird. Got half a mind to eat you myself!"

Zoë strolled by, calmly took the chicken from Mal and placed it in its cage, all the while glaring at Wash. "I like her." She said. Mal grinned. Wash fled.

He had calmed down a little by that evening, and he wandered into the kitchen to scrounge for dinner. Kaylee was there, droplets of paint in her hair, putting a radish rosette on what appeared to be a plateful of canned beans.

"You've never been on a ship before, have you?" Wash asked her, opening his own can of beans and not bothering to dump them on to a plate.

"Nope!" Kaylee beamed at him. "Never been off planet before."

"Ah." Wash said. He'd been momentarily distracted by her smile. "Never had any formal training either, I suppose?"

Kaylee took a dainty nibble of her beans. "Not a whit." She spat out a husk in disgust. "Machines just…talk to me, is all."

"Is that so…" Wash said, taking another mouthful of beans. He intended to humor her. Well, she had fixed Serenity, and he was grateful for that. It would be interesting to see how she fared out in the back.

Kaylee took to space like a duck to water. She had none of the usual anxieties Wash saw among greenhorns, and she fell into her duties like she'd been born a mechanic. Well, perhaps she had been born a mechanic, Wash mused. That would be one explanation.

The entire crew's disposition improved with the addition of Kaylee. Mal got jollier, and Zoë even laughed a dinner one night. As for Wash, he finally felt confident enough to unpack all his dinosaurs. He'd be staying on Serenity for a while.


	6. The Man? They Call Jayne

"Mal? …Mal? …MAL?!?" Wash came barreling into the cargo bay looking slightly more frazzled than usual. Mal glanced over at him, then went back to checking the cargo manifest.

"Is that the 'something just blew up' intonation, or the 'generic panic' one?" He asked, marking off another box. Wash stood before him, panting.

"It's the 'there's a gorilla in with a gun in the kitchen eating peaches' intonation!" Wash told him. "Gorilla! Gun! PEACHES!" His voice soared to prepubescent heights.

"That'd be Jayne. He's new. Go introduce yourself." Mal moved over to the next set of boxes.

"It has a name? It understands human speech? Will the wonders ever cease?" Wash plopped down on a stack of boxes.

"And he's a damned good shot. Careful, those have got grenades in 'em." Wash popped up like a jack in the box as Mal continued. "Managed to lure him away from some bandits had us cornered back there. He didn't help us, you'd have been scrounging for coffin wood as they sailed off with Serenity."

Wash still didn't like it. "So…you bargained yourself out of the frying pan into the fire. Now we've got an outlaw on the ship!"

"We're all outlaws, Wash. Especially since that caper you pulled back on Osiris." Mal reminded him, flipping to a new page on the manifest.

"Kaylee ain't an outlaw!" Wash argued, pointedly ignoring the jab about the narrow escape back on the central planet.

"Because Kaylee ain't never been nowhere with a law before. Give her time." Mal said.

"I still don't understand why we need this Jayne person." Wash said, having calmed down slightly. "Or why he's eating my peaches."

"So it's about the peaches, is it?" Mal said, grinning as he finished checking the list and chucked it on top of the cargo.

"It's about the safety of the crew! Like me!" Wash said. "Guys like that eat guys like me for breakfast. And I can't outfly him if he's in the gorram cabin." Wash was starting to get frenzied again.

"Relax, he ain't gonna hurt you. Come down to a fight, I'll take your side. We need a pilot more than anything." He patted Wash on the head. "Go prep for takeoff. I'll see if I can salvage a peach or two."

Wash had just taken off when Jayne clomped into the cabin, picking his teeth. "Hey, Mister Pilot Man."

Wash regarded him warily as he guided Serenity through the atmospheric turbulence. "Hello there, …you." He said, attempting to stay focused on the task at hand.

"What's with all the plastic lizards?" Jayne asked, moving to pick up a tyrannosaurus.

"Don't touch them!" Wash fairly screamed, jerking his hands on the controls. Serenity bucked slightly. "…they are an experiment." He added, attempting to control himself. "Perhaps this little…chat could wait until we aren't in danger of exploding?"

"When would that be?" Jayne asked, moving away from the console to poke around in the storage locker.

"I…don't know." Wash confessed. "Just not right now." Jayne got the hint and lumbered off, grumbling something about the pilot being 'gorram twitchy'. Wash breathed a sigh of relief and turned his attention back on the console, just in time to avoid a belt of orbiting debris.

Wash tried to see the good side of Jayne, he really did. A few weeks later, Wash had to head through the dining area to head to the sick bay. His sinuses were stuffed up something awful, and he knew that had something that could possibly help. Jayne had spread most of his numerous firearms out across the table and was meticulously cleaning the largest of the lot.

"This one's Vera." He said, when he noticed Wash staring. He patted the muzzle of the gun fondly. "Best piece of steel money can buy. Don't think I bought her though, har."

"How…nice." Wash said, attempting to edge around the table and out of the line of fire as quickly as possible. He'd never been very comfortable around weapons, especially big weapons wielded by bigger men. "You named her?"

"Ain't as weird as namin' them dinosaurs of yours." Jayne retorted. Wash was amazed. How on earth did a brain that small know what to do with all those weapons. He was about to ask as much when Mal's voice crackled over the intercom. "Heads up, Wash, we've got a spot of trouble ahead."

Wash flashed a half-apologetic, half-relieved grin at Jayne and fled.


	7. Wash's Secret

I love border towns. I love their distinctive smell, fresh hay mingled with equally fresh manure, the smoke from countless woodstoves mixed with the tantalizing aroma of local delicacies. And after so many weeks aboard ship, I even enjoy the all too common occurrence of being caught in a traffic jam blockaded by slow moving cattle. I'm ranch stock, tried and true, no matter how hard I try to forget it. This means I'd often find myself lending a hand to local farmers during the harvest, planting or calving.

"It's what I remember." I remember telling an old rancher, as I avoided a potentially castrating kick from an ornery cow I was trying to vaccinate. "Sure, flying's what I **do**, but ranching is what I remember."

After the loss of the family ranch on Hera, I began to dream of having my own place someday. I mean, I know I'll have to retire eventually. Young pilots are entering flight school every day, and eventually, some of them are going to catch up to me. I gotta have a backup plan.

So, I started saving up. Whenever the payoff from a job was big enough, it'd go towards that dream. Eventually, I earned enough to buy a small plot, just two hundred acres. Over the years, I've sent thousands of dollars off to Paquin for the upkeep of the ranch. Spent a little time there between jobs, getting to know the neighbors.

Whenever I had a spare moment, I'd send a wave to Jennings, my nearest neighbor. For a few dollars, he'd keep an eye on the place for me. He had his reservations at first, but after a difficult calving season I managed to help out with, he soon began to treat me like a son.

Everything changed when I met Zoë. I was so terrified she wouldn't share my dream. She'd been born on a ship, would she understand the need for someone like me to have a little piece of earth to call my own? I'm not proud of it, but I hid the ranch from her. Locked up all the files, hid the deeds, and sealed the bank account with a passcode. I kept telling myself I'd surprise her someday. It got harder to keep in contact with Jennings, but we managed to make things work.

I wrote her a letter, explaining it all. Put it in with my will, gave it to Mal for safekeeping. I figured if something happened to me, Zoë deserved to know about this little dream of mine.

Three weeks after Wash's death, Mal found Zoë on the bridge, sitting in Wash's old chair, idly turning a dinosaur around in her hands. She'd never be the same, Mal knew. You never really recovered from a loss like that.

He supposed that this wasn't the best time, but, when you thought about it, when was a good time to give your most loyal friend her dead husband's will?

"Zoë?" He called gently, not wanting to startle her.

Zoë set the dinosaur down guiltily and turned around. "Yes, Cap'n?"

Mal shifted from foot to foot. He wasn't really that good with stuff like this. Gorram, he wished Inara were here. "Um. This were Wash's." He handed over a large envelope with the name ZOË printed on it in Wash's distinctive block letters. "Wrote it after that nasty business with Niska."

Wordlessly, Zoë took the envelope and opened it. A single sheet of paper fell out, as well as a bundle that looked suspiciously like a title deed. Zoë unfolded the paper and began to read. Mal resisted the urge to read over her shoulder and slipped out.

The letter began with a childish drawing of a triceratops. Wash's favorite, Zoë remembered with a ghost of a smile.

My dearest Zoë,

I realized something rather worrisome after my little visit with Niska. Seems I'm pretty gorram mortal after all. I might not be around forever. As such, there are some things I should confess. Hopefully by the time you read this (if you ever read this) I'll have already told you, but just in case I don't get around to it…

I don't think I ever told you where I was born. I was born on the Hoban family ranch on Hera, about ten miles from Serenity Valley, a place you know too well. My earliest memories were of that ranch life, and that's something that you never forget. Trust me, I've tried, but ranching sticks to you like manure in haying season…

Anyway. That ranch were all but leveled when the Alliance blasted through. Not that it mattered much, most of the family was gone by then.

Well, that was rather unnecessary, sorry, but the point is that I always felt a powerful need to replace what I'd lost. I knew I couldn't replace the people, Aunt Ruth, Uncle Owen, but I could maybe reconstruct the memories. I know what you're saying right now sweetheart, that we can't live with our heads stuck in the past, the present is waiting, usually with guns, but I promise this was different.

I started saving up after the war, when the reconstruction paid pilots a fancy penny, and about two years before I joined up with Serenity, I bought myself a little parcel of land on Paquin. Nothing fancy, just a few hundred acres for cattle and a bit of farming. Sent off a piece of every paycheck to an account especially for it. It was Leaf on the Wind Ranch. (You'll find that account number and passcode written below).

I was going to retire there. Someday, I know that the Alliance will render me obsolete. So I saved up for that eventuality and shored up the ranch.

Then, dear heart, I met you. And everything changed. I had something else to live for. I didn't have to recreate the past, because suddenly I had a future. Like my father's moustache that you hated (you were right, it really didn't look good on me) this ranch was a way to hold on to my past. But unlike the moustache, I couldn't let this go.

I didn't mean to keep it a secret from you, I honestly swear. But, I couldn't stand the thought of you not loving the ranch as much as I did. I wanted you to love it as much as I did. So I hid it from you. But my dream changed. Now the ranch was for my family. The ranch would be my legacy, the inheritance for you and the children (I dearly hope there are children…).

There's a file on my server called "Leaf on the Wind" if River hasn't already hacked it for you, the passcode is the same as for the bank account. There are captures of the acreage, the house, the town, plus instructions on how to get a wave to Jennings, our neighbor. If you decide to sell the ranch now that I'm gone, Jennings will be your best contact. He'll help you get a fair price. He's an honest man, and I hope you get to meet him someday.

I love you, baby. And with any luck, this letter will never get read. Or someday, we'll read it together and laugh at my quirks, as we sit together in our rocking chairs and watch the sun set over Paquin.

Yours forever,

Wash.


	8. Inara's Rescue

"This is the last time I take the mule out for supplies alone on a planet prone to FLASH FLOODS!" Wash shouted into the comm system, partially to vent frustration and partially to be heard above the pouring rain. Mal's reply crackled out before Wash could hear it. "Gorram." He cursed, feeling horribly not-in-control of the situation. Given the choice between the marginal safety of a shelter by the river, or the otherwise unprotected high ground of a nearby hill, Wash had opted for the high ground, thinking that shelter could wash away. Well, apparently, so could the high ground.

Nobody else could pilot Serenity through this storm for a rescue operation, even if he could raise them on the radio. He might have to abandon the mule and the supplies if it got much worse. As if on cue, the rain increased to a fever pitch, totally obscuring his vision. Great, just great. He was going to drown on some godforsaken border moon, without having accomplished any of his life-long goals. He could no longer see the control panel, and had to fumble blindly for the comm system when it crackled to life. "Wash…..hear me?" More static. And that definitely wasn't Mal's voice.

"…Inara?" He shouted into the receiver, incredulous. Why would the ship's newest passenger be hailing him? He hadn't paid much attention to the Companion, she'd kept pretty much to herself. "What's going on?"

"…" Gorram, he'd lost the connection. "…taking shuttle…get you…" Another burst of static and the system went dead. Inara, coming to get him? He hadn't though Inara would care a fig whether or not the pilot drowned. Well, it might make her late for her next appointment, but they hadn't really ever…spoken.

------

Wash remembered when she came on board. Kaylee had been quite excited, the rest of the crew was incredulous. Jayne wondered if it meant they'd be getting special favors. Zoë seemed to think that her arrival was a bad idea, but kept her opinions to herself, as usual. Wash was alone in voicing his opinion to the Captain.

"Mal, what's a woman of class like that want with folk like us? We can't offer much." Wash said, slightly suspicious.

"Maybe **you** ain't got much to offer." Said Jayne, preening. Wash and Zoë rolled their eyes in unison, then looked away. Hopefully, no one had seen that. Mal had, and he grinned before he offered his reasoning. "Don't know why she chose us, but it'll be a powerful help having a Companion on board. Lot more ports are open to a transport what's got important folk on it."

He gestured up at the entrance to the shuttle. "Ain't gonna look a gift horse in the mouth"

"Ain't her mouth I'm interested in…" Jayne began. Mal and Zoë gave him warning looks.

"She ain't gonna be servicin' the crew." Mal said, eyes on Jayne. "Not that the likes of us could afford her price anyway."

"Are you sure we can't trade him in for a puppy?" Wash asked as he passed the captain on his way back to the bridge.

"Puppies can't shoot guns, Wash." Mal said, but only after appearing to consider the offer for a moment. "Besides, who'd give up a puppy for Jayne?"

"I heard that!" Came the mercenary's indignant shout from below the stairs where he'd gone to sulk and lift weights. Mal and Wash shared a look and headed off to their respective jobs.

Incense, the smell of frankincense and patchouli preceded the Companion onto the bridge. Grateful for not being startled into fits of girlish screaming, as was usually the case with Zoë's unannounced and stealthy visits to the bridge, Wash was able to greet her with an only slightly nervous smile.

"What can I do ya for, Miss? Madam, umn…" Wash attempted to make a good impression, and failed miserably, those scant months on Ariel not being nearly enough training to properly address a Companion.

"You can call me Inara, Mister Washbourne." She said with a gracious smile, extending her hand.

In what he fervently hoped was the appropriate response, Wash took her hand and kissed it lightly. "Mister's too fanciful, you can just call me Wash." His face flushed scarlet as he frantically backpedaled. "If it's not against the protocol or whatnot." He figured he should probably shut up before he managed to insert his foot further into his mouth.

Inara smiled at him, being surprisingly tolerant of his blundering. "These are the coordinates for my next appointment. I was told to ask you to plot a course for a suitable rendezvous."

Thank God, something he could handle. Flight coordinates, no problem. Outrunning Reavers or slipping into port under watchful Alliance eyes, sure thing. But try and talk to a woman, and Wash went all bibbledy. He could almost hear Zoë laughing at him, although the first mate was nowhere around.

He assumed Inara wouldn't much care to be flying out and about in the muck of this spit of a planet. Hell, he weren't too keen on the planet, and he'd been raised squabblin' in the dirt with the sons of his uncles buyers. Mind you, his childhood memories didn't involve cockroaches, he reflected as he squashed another one as it crawled up his thigh and tossed it into the current below. "Take much longer and you won't have to bother!" He called into the comm., eyeing the rising water warily and scanning the horizon for any signs of rescue.

As if on cue, the shuttle cut through the clouds, bathing Wash in a glorious white light. He grinned. She'd brought the spare shuttle, there was a chance of saving the mule after all.

Inara skillfully landed the shuttle, managing to find the only other piece of non-treacherous ground aside from the one where Wash had parked the mule. "Good evening, Wash." Chirped the comm. as Inara, composed as ever, completed the landing sequence.

"Gotta make this quick, Miss Inara." Wash advised. "Don't fancy floodin' the shuttle, or the both of us sinking into this muck-" He cut off abruptly as the shuttle door opened.

"Already way ahead of you!" Inara called over the pounding rain. Well, gorram. He's beginning to take a shining to this new passenger. He whispered a prayer of thanks to whoever up there was looking out for him and started the mule's engine.


End file.
